


No Distractions

by backjeanpocket



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Character Study, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Drabble, Gen, Horror, Inner Dialogue, Major Character(s), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backjeanpocket/pseuds/backjeanpocket
Summary: It's Friday night, and Richie Tozier is home alone. Where does his mind wander when he isn't entertaining a crowd?





	No Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 6/4/20: Hi y'all. Please visit https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/# to find out how you can help support the Black Lives Matter movement. If we have time to read fic (THANK YOU for reading mine!), we have time to sign a life-saving petition, write an email to a lawmaker, or make a phone call demanding justice. I also encourage my readers to please make a donation if possible. Any amount helps!
> 
> Hey hey! I'm a recent Reddie convert thanks to It Chap Two. I haven't read the novel (yet). This drabble is set in September 1988, shortly before Georgie's death, in the universe of the Andy Muschietti films. Based on the changed timeline of those films, I'm assuming that both of Richie's parents are still alive in the 1988 of this universe (?)
> 
> *:･ﾟ✧*

It was Friday night, and Richie Tozier was home alone. His parents were eating out, and they'd left him behind.

"Will you be okay here by yourself, sweetheart?" his mother had asked in that last golden hour of the afternoon, as she rinsed dishes in the sink.

"Yes, I'm fine," Richie said. "I'll be fine." He was splayed in the small bay window seat of their wood-paneled kitchen, where the setting sun lit the ends of his curly locks like flames. He was reading his father's copy of _The Two Towers. _The worn paperback cover had torn off in Richie's backpack, exposing the title page with his father's name neatly penned in the top right corner. _Wentworth Tozier. Grade 9._

His father had been straightening his tie in the hallway mirror, and gelling his part with a fine-tooth comb, which made him seem slick and composed. He crossed the threshold into the kitchen, his brown lace-up shoes smartly clicking the tile. "'Course you will. You're the dragon of the castle." Richie folded the book over his lap and poked his index fingers up on either side of his head like horns, baring his teeth. His father chuckled, and Richie crossed his eyes for added effect.

His mother tucked her hair to one side and Richie's father helped to zip up the back of her dress. She dropped her voice. "You're sure we should leave him?"

"_Mom._ I'm _thirteen_," Richie huffed from across the room.

"Betty was fourteen," she replied soberly, not missing a beat. "Don't think I've forgotten."

"He said he'll be fine, Mags," Richie's father murmured, rubbing her shoulders. "Anyway, I made reservations."

"Well, aren't _you_ formal?" She tossed a crooked half-smile over her shoulder, then turned to face him. He cupped her waist with one hand.

"We were due for a nice date night." They kissed once. "_Over_due," he added, off her look.

Richie grimaced and made a heaving sound. His father, smirking, shot him a look. "Hey, you watch and learn, kid. Your wife will eat this stuff up."

Richie whipped off his glasses and launched into a noir private eye impression, complete with overwrought Transatlantic accent. "God forbid I'm _evah_ domesticated. So many dames, so little time." His mother rolled her eyes. His father shook his head, lips pressed together in a reluctant smile. They left him a $10 bill ("emergencies only!") and the phone number of the restaurant scribbled on a sticky note.

Now Richie was alone in the lamplight, legs dangled over the back of their green corduroy sofa, gaze fixed on a water stain on the ceiling. He considered its shape. It was unusual, with one long line extending from a jagged, boxy shape, like a child's drawing of a giraffe. Or an ax. His eyes flicked to the clock over the stove. _7__:23._ Johnny Carson would be on at 11, but what to do until then? He considered marathoning _Nightmare on Elm Street _1-3. He had gone to see _Dream Master_ in theaters when it premiered several weeks back, but Moose and Gard had stolen his glasses at the start of the third act, so he had missed the ending. He finally tracked the glasses down from a theater employee, who had found them, broken, in one of the urinals. He planned to see the movie again later, when he had saved up enough of his allowance.

He consulted his mental rolodex of friends. Bill was shut in for the night while his parents hosted some friends for dinner; as usual, he'd been tasked with looking out for Georgie during the party. Stan was out of town for the weekend, visiting his grandparents. Richie took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. He swallowed. Eddie was probably home.

Richie considered what Eddie might be up to. Maybe moisturizing his mom's feet? He let out an audible _tuh _and grinned. There was no way she would let him leave the house to come over, certainly not after sunset. And besides, it would be weird to hang out with Eddie alone. They'd only spent time together in a group setting. It would be weird to invite_ just him_ over. Wouldn't it? It would.

Richie tried to imagine what an _Elm Street _marathon would be like with Eddie. Eddie would be terrified, of course. Richie would explain the constitution of the fake blood and the way Freddy's burn scars were applied. Eddie would shriek _"Lock your door!" _or _"Don't go in there!" _at all the right moments. Richie would make popcorn — kettle corn, since Eddie liked it — and he would share his bag of Twizzlers with him that he had been saving in his backpack. He'd probably have to give him a blanket to hide under. He almost giggled at the image. He and Eddie, and _Elm Street, _and a sofa, and a blanket. He and Eddie sitting next to each other on the sofa. He and Eddie curled up under a blanket on the sofa, shoulders touching. He would feel the fabric of Eddie's sleeve against his own, and then the cuff, and then the bare skin of Eddie's arm under the cuff, against his own arm. Maybe their hands would accidentally brush. Maybe Eddie's fingers would interlock with his own. Maybe—

Richie pivoted his body on the sofa, planted his feet on the floor, and stood up. He blinked in the darkness, now shot through with streaks of moonlight. He shifted his weight on his heels. The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the chorus of crickets outside. He sat down again, back upright. He reached for the remote and flicked the TV on, washing the room in cool, white light. Then he popped _A Nightmare on Elm Street _out of its case, and fed it into the VHS player. He fell asleep to the sounds of synth.


End file.
